


untitled

by tarteaucitron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarteaucitron/pseuds/tarteaucitron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 3:02 The Kids are Alright. Sam forces an issue Dean's been unwilling to confront.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled

Here's a thing about stakes. There's only so far you can up the ante before there's no actual up left, and the only way is down, and that might be softly down, swaying on a little puffy cloud of Jack and some questionable dreams, or down with a jolt on a motel bed, headboard smacking on plaster. One thing's for sure, if Dean's going to be dead within the year, and worse than dead – and if anyone could tell you about dead, it's Dean – he's gonna jolt that bed as much as freaking possible.

He's not gonna fuck anybody that counts, though. Hell, no. He pulls the Impala into the Cicero Pines lot, shanks on the handbrake, and he's already planning what to do about this itch, because he's sure as shit not gonna go back to the Morning Hill McMansion and let Lisa Braeden wind her pretty feet round his neck to scratch it.

Lovely and… bendy as that might be.

Sam's sitting jammed up on his bed, all bent over his electronic girlfriend when Dean pushes through the door. He's got that little pouty face on, mouth all puckered up like an ass, which makes it easy because Dean wasn’t allowing him anywhere near that bar to screw shit up tonight anyway.

"Yo."

Sam grunts. Dean breezes past to the bathroom.

He stops on his way out to change his shirt. Sam's eyes are fixed on the screen, and _because_ he's not coming, Dean lets himself look at the bones moving in the back of Sam's hands as he types, moves the little pointer pad thing, lets himself look at the muscle moving in his jaw as he fucking grinds his teeth. Dean looks hard, because sometimes, when you're heading out on the interstate, you need to fill your bladder right up to critical to make that thousand-mile piss really worth the while. It's like that. Sam shifts on his backside, and his pants get tugged down just enough to show a strip of elastic and brown skin.

Awesome. Dean's out the door.

"Hey! Where are you goi–?"

~

Couple of PBRs and Dean's eyeballed his target.

It's probably all this touchy feely kid stuff, and Sam all wrapped up in whatever the hell he's wrapped up in these days, but Dean's planning on getting fucked tonight. The guy's nothing like Sam, except maybe for the whole doe-eyed thing that's making Dean's stomach swash around like jello. He's short and balding, but obviously pretty buff under that button-down, which is something Dean can appreciate.

He makes an effort, too. All overcome and shit when Dean turns to face the wall in the alley out back and hooks his fingers into the bashed up mortar, making noises like he's the one about to get fucked. And the guy should probably shut up, because it's eating into the little fantasy set-up that Dean's got going in his head, where it's Sam's fingers in his ass and Sam who's wanted him since forever, or since his eighteenth birthday when it got legal or whatever, or not legal, right? Because – and – shut up! Just – Sam.

Dean's legs are shaking hard, because, okay yes, it's Sam's hand stroking down his back – yes, why not? Sam alive and wanting him, and fucking him finally, like Dean always _knew_ it was just a matter of time before he gave in. Make it _this_ year, okay, Sammy? Dean screws his eyes shut and thinks about the cock nudging into him, Sam's cock, and he's scrabbling at the twisted up hem of his shirt to get at his own hard-on when it all goes to hell.

"The fuck? The _fuck_ , Dean?"

Actual honest-to-shit Sam, who should never be within a mile of Dean when he's pressed into a wall with his dick out, is pulling the little guy off him. And as much as Dean is only thinking about stuffing himself back into his pants and then opening a fucking artery with his _car key_ , there is something very wrong with this picture, because isn't Sam supposed to be all metrosexual and whatnot? He should be backing away and respecting people's fucking choices, not hauling them around with a look on his face like he's going to bite their sack off and spit it in their mouth.

The little guy's off at a sprint the second Sam turns on Dean.

"Fuck off, Sam. I'm warning you, just –"

" _This?_ " He's sweeping an arm around at the alley, the wall, Dean's unbuckled belt, fuck knows what. "Because here I thought you were moping about because you wanted a little house, a kid." His hips are canted to the side, pissily, and he's holding himself like his limbs are loose on their hinges, like he could swing off in any direction. For a second Dean imagines being hustled back against the wall, and feels a hot wash of lust all over. He squints it away.

"Fuck you."

"Fuck _me_? Fuck _you_!"

Sam twists round with his hands on his head, all exasperated, leaving a gap between his body and the wall, and Dean heads for it. His shoulder knocks into Sam's side as he passes, and he's probably lurching around like a freaking wounded giraffe but Dean's halfway to the Impala and doesn't look back.

"Dean!"

~

Dean has to drive practically onto the highway with Sam hanging off the door handle, and his reward for slamming the brake on is a silent drive back to the motel with Sam's knee jiggling right in his line of sight. It’s got to be some cosmic kick in the balls that he hasn't come yet, because his dick is fucking _aching_ in his pants.

His sleeve snags as he's getting out of the car – thinking of the bathroom, a towel jammed under the door and his own fingers up his ass – and of course it snags on Sam's gigantic grabby paw.

"Dude, get off of me."

Sam doesn't. What he does do, when Dean jerks his arm free, is climb right over the front seat and practically chase him across the gravel to the door of their unit. Dean's feet plant so hard and so fast, he can feel the echo of it crunching in his jaw.

"Dean –"

"This has _nothing_ to do with you." Oh yeah. Say it louder. He rattles the key in the lock, until it gives up and lets them in. Five steps to the bathroom, six, if he catches his shin on the bed frame, like every time.

"Oh no. Oh no no no no."

Dean gets grabbed again, upper arm this time, twisted round and held tight, and he's starting to panic, every muscle and every last inch of skin – except for his dumb sonofabitch dick that knows Sam's got his hands on him and thinks it’s Christmas.

"What, you think you're gonna get fucked by some guy in a bar? Because, you know what," and his finger's out and pointing in Dean's face, "I think –"

"Oh yeah, Sammy, you think. You just keep thinking."

Sam's nostrils get wide, his jaw sticking out, and then he hustles forward, so Dean trips on that goddamn bed frame, and they stumble against the wall, Sam pushing, Dean pulling, and Dean goes cold and the breath squeezes up out of him like someone dumped him in a lake, because Sam's prick is hard in his pants, like hard to rival Dean's.

Another car pulls into the lot, and the headlights beam through a gap in the paper-thin drapes right onto the side of Sam's face where it's hidden in a muss of hair. They shut off, and for a second it's blacker than black, stuffing into Dean's open eyes. He's pulled away from the wall by his collar, then knocked back. His teeth snap together.

"Sam, get off –"

"You're an _idiot_."

Sam sucks at hand to hand, Dean knows it, Dad knew it, but shit, he's strong, and if anyone actually is doing any thinking here in this situation it's not Dean. Sam's face fastens onto his neck, all pointy chin and nose, breathing on him, and Dean couldn't push him off even if he wanted to.

"I think." Sam breathes between his teeth. "I think you should've asked me."

"Uh." Nothing happening in Dean's lungs, and his voice comes out reedy and thin. "I don't need your permission." He's turning his head, when Sam's fingers wind into the cuffs of his jacket and he opens his mouth on the point of Dean's jaw.

Dean's dick jerks hard; his whole body wants to push forward against his brother, but he doesn't trust his body as far as he could toss it in a weak fever. His head's so busy keeping it pressed back into the wall that he barely notices Sam tugging at his sleeves.

"Hands up."

Dean's wrists smack into the wall, and Sam – _Sam_ – leans into him, a bony-ass hip in his stomach. Dean pushes down onto the balls of his feet, stretching up on instinct more than power.

"No." No? Shit – _no_? "Turn around."

Before he's even figured out which way to shuffle, Sam's fumbled him face-first against the wall. "Hands _up_." Dean forces his arms up, levering from the shoulder, all rubbery like he's been asleep on them, pushes his fingertips against the plaster. "Yeah."

Dean's jacket is bunched around his ears; his eyes are closed. There's only the cold wall against his cheek, Sam curling over him like a shell round a snail, Dean's own prick burning a fucking hole in his shorts, because this may only be a new variation on a hundred lame-ass wet dreams – and he's gonna wake up sticky on the floor, or in the tub, any second – but it feels a hell of a lot like he's about to get fucked by his brother.

Sam is mouthing against the back of his neck – mouthing, "See?" His cock is like a sawed-off in the dip of Dean's back, and yep – he sees. If it'll help him get that cock up his ass, he sees angels, unicorns, the meaning of fucking life. Sam's still talking. "See? Safer like this." Skin of Dean's shoulder gets pinched between teeth and lip when Sam says "safer", just to point up how dumb and hilarious and goddamn beautiful that idea is. Dean pushes back helplessly, ass first. "Fuck!" A breath. "Dean – fuck!" Fingers at Dean's waistband. "Some jerk in a bar. Since when –"

It's one of those questions no one wants answered, and apparently it's gotten Sam spurred.

He snaps Dean's belt out of its loops and unbuckles it, tugs his pants down over his ass, gets his hands on Dean's hips. He's saying Dean's name sort of quiet and breathy, like he's trying to fix a new meaning to it and Dean's heart's so high up in his throat, beating crazily, like someone jammed a bird in there and he's choking on it.

Because this was never going to happen – not ever. He was _never_ going to tell his baby brother about this. Closed subject. But it's gotten worse since Sam died, and now with the deal. Looking too much, jerking off way too much, getting fucked whenever, wherever, fucking freaking out. Through a static buzz of lust, Dean manages to wonder if he's made this happen. The tiniest voice of conscience ever says he should maybe make it stop, and no trouble at all drowning _that_ shit out.

They're practically panting in time with each other, Dean's forehead on the plaster, Sam's mouth on Dean's shoulder, and Sam is holding himself tight against Dean's ass, squashing his dick right in there, humping it forward a little. He's making these noises like someone's leaning on him, squeezing the air out. Dean's fucking guts are aching for him, he's harder than hell, and Sam's gonna have to do this quick because there's that sure sweet feeling sliding into his balls, and he could shoot all over the freaking wall if Sam keeps up.

He turns his head, can't open his eyes, just in case. "Sammy –"

A shudder behind him. Sam's mouth drags up Dean's neck and across his jaw. There's some kind of stifled grunt and he's kissing at the edge of Dean's open mouth, wet and not very accurate, and so gentle that it makes Dean's teeth itch and chatter. He smacks the heel of his hand against the wall, and the bone of his forearm is still ringing with the impact, when a sweaty shaking palm closes round his cock.

"Is this –?"

Dean shoves against Sam's hand without thinking, then grabs it away in a panic. "Oh fuck! Get off get off!"

Sam's gone from behind him in a flash, and Dean whips round to shield – his ass? What kind of thinking is that? The wall is cold against Dean's palms, and Sam's standing with his hands up, like he's just lowered a weapon, and from the look on his face, all blotchy and damp, hair hanging down, mouth hanging open, he could've been fucked already. Dean gropes about for a game face, and what exactly is a game face when you're standing with your cock out in front of your little brother and he's practically got you coming just by breathing on your fucking neck? Sam's jeans are open and his own prick is jutting out from his shorts, big and red and already kind of messy with pre-come. Dean's ass twitches.

There's a stand off. Sam's Adam's apple bobs once, and he's frowning under all that hair. He'd better not make Dean ask for this. Sam's eyes dart up and down, and something – thank fuck – something decides him, because he pulls at the back of his shirt, heaves it over his head, then he's coming back in with his giant hands up, grabbing round Dean's face.

Sam smashes his mouth against Dean's, wide open, tongue fucking in, bitter coffee taste, holding Dean's head like he's trying to suck the juice out of a coconut. Dean just holds on, hands on Sam's shoulders, while Sam crowds in with his hips, his cock too high up to get a proper angle, crushing the base of Dean's spine into the wall.

A hand peels away from Dean's face, leaving a tingling print on his jaw, then it's creeping round his thigh to the back, round his ass, fingers inching in towards his asshole. It's just this side of too much, and Dean suddenly hears the horrifying little gaspy noises he's making into Sam's mouth. He swallows, and pushes at Sam's shoulder, so his hand drags back round.

"Woah!"

"But you were going to let –" Sam's forehead clunks forward. "Dean, please. I wanna do this." His voice is rough, like he's just woken up. It makes Dean's belly flutter sickly. He can't want it even half as much as Dean does, but fuck, it's enough. The Littlest Voice of Conscience has nothing to say.

"Sure," he tries, then clears his throat so he can make any kind of noise at all. "Sure. We'll do it, but you're gonna have to let me –" and he stuffs a couple of fingers in Sam's mouth. "Tongue, not teeth!" he grits out as Sam bites down, whimpering.

Sam sucks like a pro once he gets it together, all tongue muscle, and Dean pulls his fingers out with a pop before his throbbing prick catches up to what's going on. He frees one leg from his jeans and bends his knee, foot propped on the wall, gets his hand between his legs and pushes in, balls squashing at his wrist. Fuck. He was going to do this anyway, in the safety of the bathroom, but it's a whole different ballgame with Sam staring down, fucking _gulping_ at him. Dean has to close his eyes again, fucks his fingers into his ass; his blood is burning out through his skin. When he feels Sam lean his body forward again, curve round him, he has to push him away.

"Not helping."

Sam huffs. "Fuck you."

Dean cracks an eye then, and Sam has a hand gripped round the base of his dick. Dean's prick jolts in sympathy. Not helping at all.

Shaky and awkward as he is, he's ready in double time.

"Over here." He grabs Sam and tugs him towards the bed. Sam staggers after, in some sort of daze, which he needs to snap out of pronto. Dean briefly considers throwing him down on the mattress, smacking him into action and climbing on top, but no, no. Better not be looking.

He climbs on instead, crawls awkwardly forward, pulse thumping like a bass in a nightclub. Nothing happens forever, or for about three terrifying seconds, who knows, then the bed dips, shakes about a bit. Dean screws his eyes shut.

Sam nudges up against his ass and thighs. His prick fits sweetly, hot in Dean's crack. Dean breathes carefully through his nose.

"You want – you want me to use a condom?"

And that right there is so Sam that something freewheeling in Dean's head tooths back into gear, and he manages a smirk at the headboard, stupid with love all of a sudden. "Come on, Francis, what the hell are _you_ gonna give me?"

A hand smacks into his shoulder blade, gets him a mouthful of pillow. There's another jangling pause, the mattress squeaking as Sam's knees shift about, spitting, getting ready. Fingers grip at Dean's hipbone, and Sam is pushing into him, stretching him out, shaking loose right there behind him.

Dean bites down on a holler. It's spectacularly painful for all of five seconds, then he's ambushed with the hot animal pleasure of getting fucked, big cock ratcheting slowly in, filling him up, dragging at him, balls pulling easy back and forward.

"Dean, Jesus Christ."

"Shut up!"

It's a fucking pitiful irony that Dean thinks about Sam basically every time he gets fucked, and now he's getting fucked by Sam, he has to think of anything but, or he's going to go off like a kid getting his cherry popped. Guy in the bar, stocky, bald – guy in the bar, but Dean can't put it all together to make a face, and there's a big rough hand pressing on his shoulder, fingertips digging in his neck. Sam's hand. _Sam_.

Sam's not talking any more, but he's making these fucking beautiful noises – sobby, whiny noises because he's Sam after all – and he's all the way in now, and Dean has his hands twisted into the comforter, because no way he can touch himself, no way he can even breathe. There's something white hot in his chest, choking up into his mouth. He wants to tell Sam to wait – he's too strung out, orgasm coming at him like a twister.

Sam leans over him, unsticks his hand from Dean's ass, and strokes clumsily at Dean's hair.

"Fuck," he breathes. "I can't –"

Dean's thumbs pull at the tangle of fabric, tightening the twist round his knuckles. His breath comes, panting into the edge of the pillow. Sam levers himself back, walking his hands up Dean's back to grip at his hips.

He pulls out, slams in with a grunt, rocking Dean forwards. Fucking game over. Slams in again. Once more and Dean abruptly loses it, orgasm crashing through him, hips jamming into thin air, coming so sweet and hard and long he almost fuzzes right out.

Sam doesn't last after. Dean's practically hanging off his arm, because his own arms are fucking string cheese and he's wheezing out of his useless lungs, and clearly it's love because he's just lost what felt like a year's worth of spunk. Sam pistons in and out, rougher and shorter and timing all shot to hell, then comes with a sound that's like "ngyah!", tight up and straining against Dean's body, and they hang like that forever.

~

Sam's lying in Dean's jizz and laughing.

"Dude, seriously?"

He shifts his thigh so it's touching Dean's. "You have any idea –?"

"No, I do not." Of course Sam wants to talk. "And neither should you."

Sam sighs, but when Dean squints to the side he still has the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. It makes Dean feel raw and anxious in a way that sex doesn't, and there was a reason he wasn't going to fuck anyone who'd miss him.

"I was gonna give you a blowjob, you know."

"Well. Saved you a chore."

Sam laughs again and rolls over toward him. "Awesome." He puts a hand out, but it hangs over Dean's belly for a moment before landing, carefully, like he's priming a new weapon and not sure if it'll go off in his face.

"Awesome," Dean agrees. "Your magical freaking dick." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam flush beet red, feels Sam's mouth against his shoulder, grinning. "Go to sleep, Sammy."

He does, eventually, breath huffing out gentle and alive, and Dean looks down at Sam's hand spread out on his stomach. He turns his head, so he's breathing in the smell of Sam's damp hair.

Dean's a selfish bastard, but that's no news. He made a deal with a demon to make his miserable life even partway liveable; he's hardly gonna turn this down when there's only months left to go, and he's wanted it for – well, that doesn't matter. But he sure as shit doesn't want to talk about it, ever.

There's a murmur under his chin and Sam's leg jerks, foot knocking against the bruise that's coming on Dean's shin. Dean flinches, hissing, then closes his eyes and presses back, for a minute or two lets that little ache keep him from sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Written 2009 for the spn_kinkmeme on lj. Prompt: Sam tops; Dean comes from being fucked, without friction or his dick being touched. Not D/s, more just that Dean wants Sam so much and loves bottoming so much that he just can't help it.
> 
> Also posted [here](http://girl-tarte.livejournal.com/13851.html).
> 
> Beta'd and yankwanked by elmathelas and berry.


End file.
